


Early Morning Panic Attacks

by incendiarySongbird



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Panic Attacks, Second Person, Second person POV, before the poor boy dies, short vent piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiarySongbird/pseuds/incendiarySongbird
Summary: Panic attacks suck.





	Early Morning Panic Attacks

It’s a Saturday. Why the fuck are you awake before dawn on a fucking Saturday, Connor? God, you can blame it on the anxiety or the depression, but is that really any excuse to be awake before the sun even rises, before the world can even bask in the very first rays of the early morning? You rub the sleep out of your eyes with the back of your fist. Your heart is racing.

You have nothing to be nervous about, yet there you are. Awakened by a rapid heartbeat and an overwhelming sense of fear. You're used to this by now, but it isn’t any less of a hassle. At this rate, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. Dad’s side of the family has a history of heart disease, so it isn’t unlikely. You share at the ceiling, arms outstretched to both sides of your body. You’re sweating, but you can’t tell if it’s hot in your room or if that’s just, again, your anxiety.

You’re feeling nauseous now. At least you know that one’s your depression. You give a bitter smile, and you gag on your own paranoia. You keep a trash can next to your bed for this sort of thing anyway. You dry heave over the side of your bed, but nothing comes up. You haven’t eaten anything in a day a days half anyway. You don’t know why you expected to vomit when there’s nothing left in your stomach to expel.

You lie back down, but this time on your side. You clutch your pillow to your chest, but your heart is still racing. The shaking comes next. You hate the shaking. You also don’t remember your throat being this dry. You make a mental note to leave a water bottle next to your bed the next evening. That is, if you decide to live that long. You’ll probably live that long. Offing yourself is a permanent choice your not quite ready to make.  


You sit up in bed, bracing yourself against your pillows. Hugging them didn’t work, so you suppose this is the best best thing. The sun is starting to creep through your curtains. Your entire body shudders, and you huff. Great. The shaking. You wrap yourself in your blanket, and you pray that you’ll stop shaking soon. You pray to whatever deity would listen to your pathetic cries that the shaking will pass, that your heart will calm, that you can finally go back to fucking sleep like you had intended to do in the first place. This is pathetic. You’re pathetic.

Minutes seem like an eternity to you. Just when you think your body stops violently wracking itself, it starts up again with even more intensity than the last. Your therapist says that following a regular sleep schedule will help with the panic attacks. Great. Fantastic. You’ll just turn down your anxiety, do you can sleep. You’ll pop sleeping pills until you overdose. Maybe you’ll self-medicate.

You’re standing at this point, and the shaking has stopped for the most part. You need a smoke desperately, but you were supposed to resupply when you woke up. You don’t have enough to smoke now and before you left your bedroom and before you headed out. You’d have to choose. You could do without for now. You cough, and it feels as if tar is costing the sides of your throat, like tar is filling your lungs, like tar is drowning you. You don’t mind the feeling.

You look out your window, seventeen years old and wrapped in a Panic! @ The Disco throw blanket your mother bought you years ago when she thought you were into pop-punk. Your feet are bare, and you wear a t-shirt, sweatpants. You open your window and allow the cool, morning air hit your face. You shudder, but it’s different than the last time. It’s brief. You inhale the fresh air, and you cough again. You wrap your blanket tighter around yourself. You sigh.

How long has it been since you woke up? You check the cellphone on your bedside table. Your sister is your background, but you’d never tell her that. She’d never let you live it down. It’s only been ten minutes since you woke up. Short one, but you can’t imagine getting back to bed anytime soon. You might as well just get up now, start your day, do nothing, wallow in your own self-pity, lie back down, fall asleep by noon. Your mother knew to leave you alone during your depression naps, but your father always wanted to do something. Your goddamn father just doesn’t get it. None of your family members get it. They can never get it because they don’t suffer like you do. You’re alone. You’re alone, and that’s okay.  


You sit in your windowsill, staring aimlessly at your front lawn. You spot that tacky-ass garden gnome your mother bought last Easter. If you had it your way, you’d smash the damn thing, but you don’t. It makes your mother happy. You hug yourself through your throw blanket. You lean against the window frame. 

Your mind wanders, and you’re suddenly thinking about how you yelled at your sister the other day. You grimace. You want to apologize to her. It was so fucking stupid to yell just because she left you home from school, especially since you announced rather loudly that you weren’t going. You should have expected her to leave. She said she was going to leave, yet you still found her in the halls between first and second period. You shouted at her, and you embarrassed both her and yourself. You pull your knees to your chest, and you drop your face in them. You should apologize. You don’t apologize.

Your brows furrow. You’re thinking about your heart rate. You may have calmed yourself down, but you definitely still have an increased heartbeat. You’re going to die tonight. You’ve already accepted your fate. It’s a heart attack or something. You just know this is the end. You know it. You squeeze your eyes closed. You wait. Nothing happens. “This is just anxiety,” you tell yourself. “This will pass,” but it doesn’t work. You still feel this overwhelming sende of dread.  


Then, something changes in you. So what if you die? You’ve accepted death at this point. Nothing is more painful than the life you force yourself to live each day, so why not just end it all? Why not let yourself die in your sleep? Your family would be better off without you anyway. You know this. You know this, and yet you stay. You’re too much of a coward to off yourself. This, too, you know. You inhale deeply.

Somehow, you find comfort in the thought of death. You crawl back into bed, throw blanket wrapped tightly around your body. You hug yourself tighter. Sleep doesn’t come immediately, but it does come. You don’t dream. You don’t do much of anything these days.


End file.
